


and then he made a 'v' shape.

by Electric_Aesthetic



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorkable, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand porn, Irene Adler - Freeform, Power Play, Seems rude but not that rude, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow burn descriptions of small things, Virgin Sherlock, fully clothed ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electric_Aesthetic/pseuds/Electric_Aesthetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An apparently inexperienced Sherlock has his first taste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and then he made a 'v' shape.

 

 

 

Fully clothed in an ivory silk blouse and black pencil skirt, Irene lay before Sherlock on the carpet of the flat, while above her, on all fours looking intently down into her eyes, he waited, motionless.

 

...

 

They _had_ discussed this, in a round-about kind of way. Three days earlier Sherlock had expressed a new found interest in Irene. Or was it just women? She wasn’t sure. An interest in their ‘shapes’ as he had strangely phrased it.

 

Initially, Irene had been indifferent to his awkward request. In her mind, it had been a thinly veiled justification, backed up by tenuous links to suspect pseudo-science, as to why she should entertain him. After some consideration, however, her own curiosity of his interest had got the better of her, and beyond that, the entire enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, more generally. She wanted to know more too, albeit to meet her own agenda. Giving it little further thought, three days ago, in a café two streets up from 221B, Irene had acquiesced to Sherlock’s request.

 

...

 

Placing a hand roughly round the scruff of his neck, Irene had encouraged Sherlock down to the floor, and with her amazement, he had put up little resistance. His uncharacteristic compliancy confirmed to Irene that silently, he understood that this was the time and place she had chosen to undertake the aforementioned activity. So be it... and as always, Sherlock was keen to proceed.

 

Lowering his long body over hers, and bringing his face in line with her hips, he looked questioningly at the tailored skirt that covered and cradled her curves from waist to knee. He paused then, before crawling backwards a little, and as he did so, his polished brogues tapped lightly on the floor and his blue suit trousers buckled under his angular joints. Face now aligned with her knees, he lightly took hold of either side of the hem of her skirt with both hands holding the fabric between thumb and forefinger. He waited, and delicately nipping the bottom of her skirt between his long pale digits, remained motionless, looking up into her eyes as if silently asking for permission.

 

Clearly, Irene considered, Sherlock had little idea of the force really required to hoist her figure hugging skirt up over her thighs to expose the area he had suddenly expressed so much interest in. As admirable as his finger and thumb pinch gesture was, it crossed her mind that at this rate, they’d probably be there all day. A little impatient, and with a huff, she pulled at the fabric herself from her hips and hiked the skirt right up to her waist in three generous shuffles of her bottom.

 

But for her hold ups and knickers, Irene’s bottom half was laid bare before Sherlock now, and she watched his expression as he slowly moved out of his finger-thumb pinch position, which comically he still held, although the fabric was no longer in his hands. He leaned above her, taking his weight on his forearms.

 

With what looked to him like an endless expanse of velvety landscape laid out before him, Sherlock’s eyes repeatedly flitted over the newly exposed skin before settling on the surface of the soft black fabric at meeting of Irene’s thighs. Parting his lips ever so slightly as he breathed out, the expression on his face suggested that he was trying to process something.

 

Looking at him, looking at her, Irene took a moment to admire his strong, broad shoulders; this, despite his lean frame. His shoulders were followed by the crisp white collar of a slim fitting shirt and an unbuttoned suit jacket which hung loosely at his sides. The vision before her was topped off by an unruly mop of loose, dark curls, and from her vantage point, an almost Apollonian nose. For Irene, Sherlock’s physical form and size betrayed the searching, questioning, almost lost expression he now wore upon his face.

 

The room was silent but for the distant hum of traffic on the streets below, and Irene broke it by saying softly to him, “It’s ok, you know.”

 

Sherlock shifted then, from all fours to kneeling back on his haunches. With a little hesitation, he lightly dropped his hand towards her knee. His fingers made the first electric skin to skin contact, but they were soon accompanied by his wide, warm palm which he then gratuitously stretched out and slowly drew upwards. Engrossed in the smoothness of the sensation, he took his time to sweep his long fingers up over the curve of her velveteen thigh until he reached the apex where her pale skin disappeared under a soft triangle of fabric.

 

Sherlock’s breath caught a little then, and moving a little quicker than before, he proceeded to run his two forefingers down the smooth side seam of her knickers where they pressed lightly against  the impossibly soft skin of the inside of her thigh.  As he did this, he shuffled a little further forward, reducing the gap between his fully clothed body and hers.

 

Irene could tell Sherlock was nervous now, but she knew she could not speak. The tension radiating from his entire body was palpable and he seemed to have ceased to breathe. His lean and muscular frame was drawn out and taught like a wire ready to snap at any minute. She thought that even the slightest of utterances, even in encouragement, would make him jump right out of his skin. So, she just continued to look in to his eyes in silent affirmation.

 

With his warm hand still between her legs, Irene observed as Sherlock’s expression subtly shifted. His brow knitted a fraction, his chin became more defined, and he tightened his mouth in what appeared to be a show of new found determination. With that, he used his fingers to push the thin black fabric aside a little before carefully sliding the digits downwards and forwards, but only a touch.

 

To Irene it felt like Sherlock must have had only his fingertips inside of her, and if it had been any other man, or woman, she’d have complained that they were teasing. However, she then felt him lightly press the pads of his digits against her from the inside, testing.

 

“Oh”, Sherlock said breaking the silence, and raising his eyebrows with a genuine expression of intrigue. “I _know_ what temperature it should be, but it seems incredibly warm in there”. Irene struggled to keep a straight face, wondering if he had any idea how idiotic he sounded. He then cleared his throat a little awkwardly, and corrected himself, “I mean, in you. It seems incredibly warm inside you”. He looked at her then in a way that made Irene’s notions of his idiocy immediately subside, and as if gauging her response, he proceeded to push his fingers further into her, right up to the hilt of his knuckles.

 

Breathing in a short sharp breath, and momentarily closing her eyes, Irene’s mouth formed a ‘Sh...’ shape as if she was about to say his name. She refrained. Instead, she moved into his touch ever so slightly to show him that it was ok. With an intensity that would knock the edge off the confidence of even the strongest of individuals, Sherlock stared down at his own hand as he slowly withdrew his long fingers, only to pause for the briefest of moments, before thrusting them steadily back in again. He repeated the motion. Twice, three times, and simultaneously his lower lip gradually disappeared as he held it ever more tightly between his teeth.

 

At an agonisingly slow speed, and with surprising gentleness, Sherlock then withdrew his fingers and held them before him for inspection. However, the inspection didn’t come. Instead, after the most cursory of glances, he swiftly pushed the slicked digits between his lips and into his mouth at a rate that Irene thought quite unbecoming. A few seconds passed and she observed as Sherlock’s cheeks began to hollow somewhat as he tasted the new taste. In his piercingly pale eyes Irene registered what appeared to be an element of surprise, of all emotions... or was it intrigue? She couldn’t be sure, but as he sat with his fingers inside his own mouth, she fancied he looked like a man who had just shocked himself with his own actions. Whatever it was, she smiled a warm and genuine smile as she watched him slowly withdraw his fingers from between his softly pursed lips. As he did so, she admired how the suction he continued to inflict upon them caused his full and beautifully defined mouth to drag, ever so slightly, over his protruding knuckles. One knuckle, two.

 

Sherlock hesitated then, as if he intended to say something but decided against it. Instead, he proceeded to separate his two long, pale fingers to make a ’v’ shape. With his hand before him, he gazed with burning intensity at the tight, inverted arc of flesh where his fingers met the palm of his hand. _Now for the inspection_ , Irene thought. Slowly, he turned his hand over. With his outstretched palm now facing downwards, Sherlock continued to stare at the other side of the same taught and softly curving web of flesh at the meeting point of his two knuckles. He paused for moment before bringing the back of his hand up to his slicked lips in an almost feline-like motion and placing the tip of his tongue on the patch of skin where the prominent tendons running up the back of his hand intersected. At that moment his intense stare disappeared as he closed his eyes. Then, in a painfully slow motion, Irene watched as Sherlock drew his hot tongue up the back of his hand, between his knuckles and into the gap between them in a concerted effort to catch any remaining moisture that may have pooled there.

 

The gesture should have appeared obscene, yet he executed it with poise, if not something close to grace. Eyes still averted, Sherlock then audibly breathed inwards while simultaneously flaring his nostrils ever so slightly. It was clear that he was trying to extricate more taste, more fragrance and flavour from it, as one might after taking a bite from a soft, ripe fruit.

 

 _Greedy_ , Irene thought to herself with a degree of pride. She suspected that Sherlock had little, if any idea of the fact that, evidently, he fucking loved it.

 

Silently and patiently she observed him, taking great pleasure from watching him enjoy her.  At least, she thought it was enjoyment, if not that, then an intense study of his own senses and responses inside his own head. Which, she considered, would be equally enjoyable for him, therefore, it didn’t really matter. Indeed, that may have been it, since with his eyes still closed, his brow now begun to furrow resulting in a light crinkle at the top of his nose. Unsure of his current train of thought Irene remained still and waited for his next move.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes, and quickly dropped his hand to the carpet to support his weight more evenly.  He locked her eyes an icy blue stare and questioned, “what else? What else can I do?... I want to...”

 

His expression was searching now, his motions close to feverish in comparison to how he had taken his time to languidly lap at his own hand a few moments previously. Still propping himself up on his forearms, Sherlock waited expectantly, now impatient for her reply. As he hovered above her, Irene felt a new wave of warmth radiate from his chest and she perceived a darkness rising up inside of him, his pupils noticeably dilating.

 

Beyond any shadow of a doubt, at that moment, Irene knew she had Sherlock’s absolute, undivided attention. Pleased with his physical response, she ignored his question and instead asked him rather teasingly, “did you like that?”

 

Frustration immediately welled up within him, although frustration about what, or what for, he could not fathom. Impatiently his face became cold and stoic although the blown out darkness in his pupils remained. “Yes, yes” he dismissed in a curt tone while waving a hand sideways, apparently more than ready for the next reveal. 

 

She wondered. What was he thinking? Was he turned on? Bored already? Or maybe...  maybe just nothing? Not wanting to prematurely sabotage her own pleasure she certainly wasn’t going to ask him. Tilting her head to the side to view the stern, yet still searching face above her from another angle, she imagined what might be going on inside that frenetic mind of his. She pondered over it for a further moment or two, purposely drawing out the tense silence that hung between them like a thick, muggy fog. She wasn’t concerned. Rather, she was fascinated by him, his reactions, and the absolute unpredictability that she had now resigned to expect of him... at least in the contexts in which they presently found themselves.

 

Sherlock broke the silence. “What else?” He repeated, more loudly than was necessary, his neck outstretched.

 

Irene took a breath. “Slow down Mr. Holmes”. She replied in a teasing yet firm tone. “One thing at a time. After all, you seem to have managed just fine all this time, or at least up until about twenty minutes ago...”

 

“Yes but!...” he snapped. "but I..." Then something changed, and he stopped. Whatever he was going to say, he had silenced himself. Instead, he cleared his throat.

 

Sherlock’s voice then dropped an octave, and recoiling, he drew his chin back into his chest and flatly agreed with her, “yes”, he said.

 

Rocking back on to his haunches, he then quickly stood up dissipating the tension that had hung so heavy between them. Immediately he began to smooth out the creases that had gathered around the tops of his thighs in the fabric of his suit trousers. From the floor Irene calmly looked up at him. As he ran his large and lean fingered hands down over the fabric covering his sharp hips to the soft curve of his thighs she resisted the urge to glance at his groin. Although she was desperate to see if anything stirred there, she fought back her desire to look and resolutely fixed her gaze upon his face.   

 

“I think I may have made a poor judgement” he blurted out, now staring blankly at the wall opposite, purposefully averting his eyes from hers.

 

“Excuse me?” She replied, “I don’t think I follow”. A little perplexed, she then propped herself up, and leaned the small of her back against the couch. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then said, “the other day... in light of tonight, it may have been a poor judgment of my behalf.”Irene was tempted to raise an eyebrow but she resisted, instead she held her gaze. Cool, even, yet accommodating, and waited for him to continue. His voice then quietened almost to a murmur, “I would like to... no... I think I want to... beg for mercy.”

 

Following his utterance, it was as if an oppressive weight had been lifted from his shoulders since he then immediately straightened his back and righted his shoulders. “Please”, he promptly added at a more audible volume and in an intonation that made it sound more like a statement than a request.

 

Remaining seated, Irene took her time to re-arrange her skirt before surveying Sherlock’s lean and pallid form as he stood before her rigid as a post.

 

“Twice” she corrected, raising her perfectly manicured index finger for emphasis. “I said twice”.

 

For a long moment Sherlock pursed his lips. Although he had blinked at the word when she had said it the second time, he otherwise failed to respond. Irene bathed in the exquisiteness of that moment. She didn’t know want he was thinking, but it was wonderful watching the minute shifts in his expression as the boundaries of his highly polished and heavily guarded dichotomy of thoughts and feelings, of mind and body, began to collapse in on themselves. If only for a second or two, it seemed as if within him, Sherlock was experiencing some glorious and gratuitous bloody conflict, although on the exterior, he continued to gaze coldly ahead of him.

 

Sherlock then audibly breathed out as he regained complete composure. Spinning on his heels, he picked up his coat and scarf and swung them over his forearm while heading towards the door determinedly. ‘Goodbye’ he clipped, and before she had the opportunity to reply, the door swiftly closed behind him, and with it, a gush of fresh air from the hallway wafted into the musty apartment.

 

 


End file.
